Moonshine
by fleurs-du-mol
Summary: John has a bad break up. Sherlock has moonshine. Everybody wins! This was inspired by a smashing RP session, so while I have editorialized it and cobbled together a narrative, John's dialogue doesn't all belong to me.


Sherlock finds John sprawled on the couch, much in the same position that he finds himself in when he's pondering, although John has obviously been drinking and not pondering. There's a large bottle of cognac sitting half an inch from his outstretched fingers; a fourth of it's already gone. "Break up go badly, then?"

John squints up at him, sighs, and says, "You're the detective—you tell me."

Ignoring this, Sherlock replies, "The shop was out of raspberry jam."

"No it wasn't," says John. _He either forgot or just never intended to get it._

"And you'll have to get milk if you want it later."

"Sherlock—" John rights himself into a sitting position, fighting down the urge to say several obscenities. "What were you even doing out, then?"

"Things," says Sherlock complacently.

He sweeps past the sofa without a further assessment of John's state, which admittedly isn't as bad as it might be, and into the kitchen. Where, unfortunately, he begins to make rather a lot of noise rearranging something that sounds like it could either be the beakers or the teacups. _God, I hope it's not the teacups. There are only a few of those left that haven't been cracked._

Resigned, John pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right, okay."

The noise abruptly ceases and Sherlock reappears with a mug filled with what has to be cold tea from earlier in the day. "Tea?"

John eyes it skeptically.

"No, thanks."

Sherlock offers it to him with raised eyebrows and John has no choice but to take the mug. It's rare enough that Sherlock will bring him anything other than a bloodied weapon or petri dish filled with some kind of are mold, that he remains hopeful. He seems to be dealing with a pleasantly manic Sherlock—the version with the outbursts and irresistible need to move dialed down several notches.

Gingerly, because heaven really knows what he's drinking and it could be tea laced with an exotic new sedative—Sherlock might consider that a mercy to him, given the current circumstances—John sips.

The tea is definitely cold, and definitely old, but it's also spiked. "What is this?"

"Moonshine, of a sort," says Sherlock, brandishing a nondescript glass bottle at him, which makes John instantly wary. The liquid spreads on his tongue, tasting more like whiskey than anything else, but he's sure it's probably got several types of alcohol in, and bathtub gin might be the least of his worries there.

"Am I going to go blind if I keep drinking this?"

"Doubtful." Sherlock settles on the arm of the sofa, perching, even though there's plenty of room next to John. "You won't be going to work in the morning, though."

John takes another sip, a bigger one. "Says who? I don't get pissed. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing you properly smashed, either."

"Fast metabolism. Willpower. And don't tempt me to test that theory—can't and don't are two different things. Some of this mixed with the amount of cognac you've had will send you rapidly in that direction."

Sherlock drinks directly from the bottle, not that John feels much more civilized drinking Sherlock's moonshine from a tea-stained mug and mixed with tea that should have been poured down the drain six hours ago.

"Fair enough," says John, downing the rest of the enhanced tea. "It's not bad, this. It's almost—good." Sherlock smirks and unwinds the scarf from his neck, dropping it to the table. "You've been holding out on your blogger."

John gestures for the bottle and Sherlock pours him a hefty amount of the mysterious, amber colored booze.

"Almost good?"

"Well," John says, after knocking back a gulp, wincing, "if it tasted good, it wouldn't be a proper drink, would it?" He blinks, feeling the warmth returning to his fingers. Sherlock wasn't joking. "And this is… a very proper drink. A problem… proper. Sorry."

Sherlock laces his long fingers around the bottle and takes a deep drink. The moonshine's putting color into his gaunt cheeks. It's not a lot, but enough to take the edge off his pale skin. "Want my opinion yet? You've probably had enough to handle it now. You're slurring."

"You're such a prick. You just want to keep it all for yourself. Come on," says John, shaking his empty teacup.

"Oh, don't be silly. I can always make more. Might not be quite the same, though." Sherlock passes him the bottle this time, continuing, "Have your 'proper' drink like a real besotted, dumped, and dejected man. Or so I can possibly imagine. Cups only get in the way."

"Right. Yes," says John, after taking a swig. "Hm. You'd never have put up with Sarah. Not for a minute." He passes the bottle back.

Sherlock smiles, and it's not a nice smile. "Mm, no. But you are uncommonly good at tolerating people who are otherwise intolerable." He drinks. "I liked this batch."

"Case and point," John replies, bowing toward him with a flourish, and then having to take a moment to steady his limbs. "There. Now, how smashed can I be?"

"It depends, are we going for incoherence or oblivion? For the latter, keep drinking."

"I don't need to," insists John. He takes the bottle from Sherlock's hands, clumsily, and their fingers brush together. Sherlock twitches his hand away. "Do you feel less exceptionally—exceptional, when you get pissed?"

The detective considers his question. "A little. Drugs were better, but being a junkie played hell on trying to work with Scotland Yard. Lestrade had to bail me out a few times, in the early days." Sherlock regards John. "If she wasn't worth it, then why are you drinking?"

John pauses before answering. _Whatever I say can and will be used against me in the court of Sherlock's brain._

"I thought, 'oh, well, maybe this one will be better' but in the end, she turned out to be very, er, threatened by your—our—work." Sherlock stands, walks over to the fireplace where mostly dead embers rest in the hearth, and grabs a poker to coax them back into flames. "She didn't quite seem to understand that something, somehow gives me… purpose. Being with you, working at bloody dangerous shit." Thoughtfully, John smiles and watches the dregs left in the bottle.

"I suppose you could have lied about me and how invigorating I am, but that wouldn't have lasted long. Am I allowed to express an opinion now?" He strides to John, takes the bottle back.

Shaking his head and smirking up at him, John says, "I can't believe you're asking, but go ahead." He scratches the back of his head.

"See, you have taught me some things. But my opinion is, you're an idiot," says Sherlock, starting to pace back and forth in a very familiar way. "What's the point of even hoping any of them will accept what you do? 'Oh, don't mind me, just busted another cartel with Sherlock.' Hubris. Blind hope. Stop trying. But you won't." He sips. "You're too—hopeful."

"I see the alcohol affects the dictionary portion of your brain first," replies John, holding out his hand. "Bottle."

"And I see it's numbed you to taking any offense, which is refreshing." Despite John's outstretched hand, Sherlock takes the bottle to his lips again. "And that's not the first part it's had an affect on, but never mind that."

"Sherlock—share."

"There's hardly a swallow left anyway."

John's not in any way shocked when Sherlock finishes the stash entirely and then grins. "I told you, I'll make more," says Sherlock, handing him the now decidedly empty bottle. "Besides, you started drinking before I did and I have more brain cells to kill than you."

"You're a prick," says John, standing up, making his wobbly way toward him, and then shoving the bottle into his chest. "Now I need something else to inebriate me."

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he grabs John's wrists. "There's a shop at the end of the street. Or, I do have rubbing alcohol but I'd feel unethical offering it to a doctor. I thought you said you didn't need to drink."

"Oh, and when does it affect your memory?" John frees his wrists, walks past Sherlock, and proceeds to eye the crowded, cluttered bookshelves hopefully. There are a good number of bottles here. He goes to the nearest one, opens it, and sniffs. Sherlock trails after him, the epitome of nonchalance.

"You won't find it."

Abruptly, John pivots to face him again. "Do you really think it's hopeless?"

"Yes." Sherlock hesitates minutely off the look on John's face, which John can guess must be either deeply offended or pathetically sad. "If you—if you keep going to the same sorts of people and thinking it might turn out differently. That's insanity." He indicates the little bottle John holds with his gaze. "Put the topper back on that jar or the fumes will knock us out in three minutes."

Blanching, John quickly seals the jar and sets it down gingerly. "Jesus. You've got that just sitting around? Where anyone could open it?"

"No one ever had until the thought of rubbing alcohol turned appealing." Sherlock moves toward him and puts a hand on his arm, pushing the jar further back on the shelf with his other hand. "Now you know not to go round sniffing things I've left out."

"No label? It looks like water. Mrs. Hudson could have… ah. But she knows better—and I don't." John makes a strangled sound of frustration. "Get me some _goddamned_ alcohol, Sherlock."

"Mrs. Hudson is well trained," says Sherlock, scowling at him. "It must be getting serious; you're swearing at me. All right. Close your eyes, turn around, whichever." He lets go of John's arm and waits.

Must not want to divulge where he keeps his stash, muses John. Sighing, he says, "Really? You're ser—okay, fine." His eyes close heavily. He taps his foot, waiting. When he doesn't hear Sherlock move, he snorts. "Sherlock, if you're—"

What he feels next is enough to shut him up entirely. Hardly anything his flatmate does surprises him anymore, but this does. There's a warm kiss, a very gentle kiss given by slightly chapped lips, on the side of his neck, just under his ear.

He opens his eyes to see Sherlock, gone perfectly still, looking at him. Not embarrassed, maybe resigned.

"You said it was hopeless if I kept trying the same sort of person," John says to him, calmly, even though his heart is beating faster. "What did you mean by that?"

Sherlock remains stiller than a cat, but there's a glint to his blue eyes. "That should be perfectly obvious, even to you."


End file.
